


Our Little Hearts Go

by grammarglamour



Category: 13 Reasons Why (TV)
Genre: Cuddling, M/M, No Smut, Young Love, post-holiday blues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 20:37:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17856584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grammarglamour/pseuds/grammarglamour
Summary: After kissing at Skye's party in my other story, "Plus One," Clay and Tony need to decide what is going on between them. Looming over all this is the fact that winter break is almost over, and Clay has to go back to school soon.





	Our Little Hearts Go

**Author's Note:**

> I'm almost thirty-fucking-six and I cannot get enough of writing about these two fools. I thought fanfiction was done with me, but nooooooooo. The universe knows I can't resist a hot guy in a cool car and a brooding twink, as evidenced by the copious amounts of Dean/Castiel I've written in my day. So here we go again, writing fanfiction and listening to Tori Amos, just like I have been doing for twenty long years, but whatever. 
> 
> I'm sort of noodling around with this Clay/Tony relationship as it develops, so this story is connected to my other story, "Plus One," and the eventual end-game is "Magnificent Spectacular Days," where they get married. What else will they get up to? My next plan is to ruin Valentine's Day by giving Tony the flu. 
> 
> Anyway, read my story please and thank you, and kudos/comment because goddammit I need it.

Our Little Hearts Go

Crestmont was hardly beautiful any time of the day, least of all at night, but Tony attempted to find some beauty in the watery winter lights, the winding small-town streets, the tree-lined neighborhoods. Driving through the deserted night, he tried to see beauty in it, but he only got as far as finding it “cute.” He asked himself if that mattered, if he needed a place to be beautiful, and he guessed he didn’t. Like many people, he didn’t know jack shit about what he wanted or needed from a place.

He went to the park, the one with the climbing cliff, and sat in the parking lot in his car. He turned the lights off and stared off into the park. It felt late at only seven in the evening, owing to mid-winter early sunsets. That suited him fine. He couldn’t effectively brood in broad daylight, after all.

The car quickly started to fog up against the freezing cold air outside. He wondered what winter was like in the small town where his parents came from, a dusty desert ramble of cacti and low scrubby bushes. He had been there a couple times as a kid, and he remembered rolling around in the yard with his siblings and cousins, amazed at the different shades of red and brown, skin and dust and old stucco buildings. He felt connected to the earth and to that place, like he himself had been fashioned from the deep, hard caliche that underpinned the loose dust. But that small-town in Mexico could never be home, exactly. He spoke the language, could cook the food, loved the different types of music, but he always felt like an outsider there, even more than in America. In America, he was Mexican, but in Mexico, he was American, a paradox of culture and identity, both was-and-was-not, existing simultaneously and not at all. But in that small, dusty Mexican town, the things he wanted weren’t things celebrated. If guys wanted to hook up with other guys, they either went to the city or they hooked up with guys on the down-low. He couldn’t do either of those things, at least not indefinitely. He wanted whoever he was with to be a part of his family.

Whoever he was with.

Clay. That was who he wanted. Not “whoever,” not some imaginary guy, but his friend, that same friend who kissed him so passionately at Skye’s New Year’s party. They hadn’t talked about it much, just shy admissions that neither regretted it, but it hadn’t happened again, and Clay was due back to Reno in ten days. Tony knew he had to say something before then, or he’d spend the entire semester regretting it.

He couldn’t get the memory of Clay out of his mind, the feel of his hands and tongue, his smell, his tense breathing as it relaxed. Tony wanted it again and wanted more. But if that was ever going to happen, he needed to talk to Clay about something other than movies and music.

The cold and dark got the better of him, but he didn’t want to go home just then. The house was still filled with relatives after the holidays. He had ceded the floor of his bedroom to one of his cousins, who was nice enough but had spread out like a creeping vine from the twin-sized air mattress in the corner, with his clothes and Switch and laptop and all kinds of accoutrements. So, Tony headed to Monet’s, his least worst option.

He drove there, let the slow emergence of streetlights ease him back into being around people again, and parked as close as he could get. It was a Tuesday, a slow night in downtown Crestmont – not that they ever had fast nights. He ordered a coffee even though he knew the caffeine would keep him up. That was okay – Ricky probably had some weed to counteract it.

He settled at a table and pulled out his phone, scrolling somewhat mindlessly through his rarely-used Twitter feed.

And then a post from Clay caught his eye.

 _That feeling of knowing you need to do something, but not having the balls to do it._ And then a picture of Spongebob looking goofy.

Tony’s hands started shaking. Of course he felt stupid, and of course the post was intentionally vague. It could be about going to the grocery store, for all Tony knew. But his gut told him it wasn’t. His gut told him that Clay was thinking the same thing Tony had been brooding about for the past week.

He gripped his phone tight, held onto it like a precious postcard, even as his hands started to sweat. When a voice asked him if the other seat was taken, he nearly jumped out of his skin. But he looked up only to see Alex Standall smirking down at him. Not in a mean way. That was just Alex’s face. 

“Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s fine. Yeah, have a seat,” Tony said, clearing his throat. He put his phone in his pocket and wiped his hands on his jeans.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“No, no. Just, you know – just—”

“Sitting by yourself on a weeknight nursing a cup of coffee?”

Tony smiled sheepishly. “Yeah.”

“I see. Anything to do with you and Clay getting hot and heavy at Skye’s party?”

“How did you hear about – I mean, nothing happened. We weren’t hot and heavy.”

“I see. Well, my friend – also named Alex, but she’s a girl – said she saw you two there wrapped up like a couple snakes.”

“Who the fuck is this girl?”

“She was in your psych lecture at the community college last term and in my art class.”

“I have no idea who the hell she is! And we weren’t – not like snakes, okay? That makes it sound – you know what, Alex? You are interrupting. Good seeing you, man. Now leave me alone.”

He pulled out his phone and looked at it without seeing it until he noticed that he’d left his Twitter app up and his screen was still filled with Clay’s obnoxiously cryptic message. He clenched his jaw and found something else to do with his phone.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Alex said with a sigh. “That came off like – like—”

“Like, directly out of the Ryan Shaver playbook.”

“I want to be affronted, but you’re right.” Alex tapped his cane nervously. “Can we start that over?”

Tony spared him a grudging, purse-lipped glance. He did seem genuinely contrite. “Fine, but I reserve the right to leave if I don’t like it.”

“Fair,” Alex agreed. “Anyway, does your brooding have anything to do with kissing Clay?”

“I don’t know. Yeah, in the sense that I can’t stop thinking about it. But no, because – well, let’s just say, it wasn’t something I had never thought about before.”

“Gotcha. And now you want more, but you don’t know if he does.”

“Exactly.”

“And the only way to find out is to talk to him, but who the fuck wants to talk to someone about that stuff?”

“ _Exactly_.”

“Yeah, that part sucks. But if there’s one thing I know about Clay, it’s that he’s not a slut. He doesn’t just make out with random people,” Alex said. Inelegant, but true.

Tony nodded and stared down into his coffee. “Yeah, that’s true.”

“And he’s not Mr. Out-and-About either, like you. He’s only been with girls. So this shit is probably fucking scary. It’s like this whole other thing now, you know? Does he just want to make out a little? Is he trying to discover himself, or does he want to, like, be your boyfriend or whatever? And what the hell does he tell people, if anything?”

Tony realized, about halfway through this rumination, that Alex was only partially talking about Clay and was mostly talking about himself. But he played along, nonetheless, even as curiosity over what he was talking about burned through him. The only thing he was certain of there was that it involved Zach.

“Yeah, true. Although I would say that I’m definitely not asking all that much of him. As far as telling anyone anything, he’s not obligated to tell anyone anything. I wouldn’t ask that of him, and no one else should ask that of anyone else either. I mean, if it’s serious, sure. But you know, a couple guys – or girls or whatever – just trying to work some shit out?” He waved his hand, giving Alex the gay blessing. “That’s between those two people.”

“But you gotta talk about it?” Definitely a question and not a directive.

“Yeah, I’m afraid you do. I do. We all do. We just gotta…talk to people about these things.”

Alex nodded, though his eyes were staring off into some distance and clearly seeing an imaginary person rather than Tony. “Gotta talk to people.”

Tony knew his advice was sound, though. He had to talk to Clay about this or he’d spend the next indeterminate part of his life wondering what it had all meant, if it meant anything at all.

***

It took another two days for Tony to get up the gumption to follow through with his own advice. Two days of moping around the house until his mother told him to go somewhere else because it was like living with a man constantly on his way to a funeral. Two days of moping around the shop until his dad had him sweeping up the back room and organizing bolts because he couldn’t stand Tony’s long face.

He didn’t often feel much about not being able to talk to his parents about romantic relationships, but this was one of those times when he felt cheated. He could talk to them, in the sense that if they asked if he was seeing anyone, he could answer honestly, but they didn’t get much beyond that, as though him dating guys was like dating a whole other species. More than that, he didn’t need advice – he knew what he needed to do – he needed a damn pep talk. But his dad would say that he didn’t know anything about these kinds of things – meaning gay things – and his mom would vaguely tell him to do what he thought was right.

In the end, he texted Skye and met her in the park. It was a cold, gray afternoon. She showed up swathed in layers of black – jacket, scarf, skirt – the effect being that at a distance, she looked like a dark Christmas tree. She pulled open the passenger seat of his car and slid in, bringing the damp winter smell with her until she reached in her bag and pulled out and opened a Thermos, at which point the car was filled with the smell of coffee.

“I figured you could use some…oomph,” she said, pouring some into the cap.

“I don’t know if there is enough oomph in the world for me right now,” he said, “but I’m willing to try.” He took the cup and had a sip. Despite his skepticism, the coffee did make him feel a little better, with its comforting warmth.

“So my guess is this is about Clay.”

“How did you figure that? Your witch cards?”

“Ha, no. No divination needed with you two. I guessed because I’ve already talked to Clay.” She held up a hand. “Do _not_ tell him I told you that I had talked to him. It’d send him into a tailspin.”

Tony tried to act cool while sipping the coffee, to zero effect. All he could think to ask was, “What did he say about me?” He felt foolish and juvenile as soon as the words left his mouth.

“Well, it wasn’t so much about you. It was a very Clay-esque ramble about kissing you and something about looking at gay porn on PornHub and not knowing what to do with all this and blah, blah, blah. I’d normally keep confidences better than this, but in this particular case, I’m telling you because I think you two are good for each other,” she said, taking a long swig from the Thermos.

“Thank you. I appreciate that. No hard feelings that I’m, like, swooping in on your former territory?”

She waved him away. “God, no. That’s ancient history by now, and if you remember, _I_ broke up with _him._ ”

“Okay.” He paused, stared out the window at the fog rolling in. “How are you doing? Like, really?”

She shrugged. “I’m okay, which doesn’t sound spectacular, but it’s an improvement. Being just okay is a nice break after alternately feeling like shit constantly and then feeling like I could take over the world.”

“That makes sense. I’m glad you’re feeling okay.”

“Thanks.”

They chatted a while longer in Tony’s car, intermittently sipping coffee. He hadn’t spent much time with Skye since graduating, and he realized he missed her company. They were ill-matched, but perhaps that was the secret ingredient.

As it got dark, they decided it was time to say good-bye, which they did with hugs and promises to hang out more.

He watched her head out in her car – not much, to be sure, but an upgrade in comfort from that moped she used to ride. In the ensuing silence, left alone again with his thoughts, he knew it was time. Next stop: Clay’s house.

***

He had texted Clay asking if it was okay to come over, but even still, he sat in his car out front of the house for several minutes rethinking – or perhaps overthinking – the validity of Clay’s confirmation that it was indeed okay. But then the car was cold and the outside dark, whereas the Jensens’ house shone with daffodil-yellow light in the windows. Up the front walk, to the door, knocking, then Clay’s mom smiling and ushering him in.

“So good to see you, Tony,” she cooed.

“Thanks. You too, Mrs. Jensen. How were your holidays?”

“Oh, boring. Barely made it until midnight on New Year’s.”

“Well, there’s always next year.”

“I hope! Anyway, Clay is upstairs,” she said, turning to go into the kitchen. But then she stopped, hesitated. Damn, he thought he’d be making an easy, clean getaway. “Listen, Tony, you know Dennis Velasquez?”

Tony cleared his throat uncomfortably. That guy. “I remember him.”

“Well, he was wondering about you maybe doing some work for him in the office or something. Like a – a – mentorship thing or something,” she said. His face must have showed the skepticism he felt, for her voice trailed off as she spoke.

“Right,” he said. “I’m not interested. Like, not at all. And also? I have a job, in my father’s shop, which he owns outright. I don’t want to be a lawyer. No offense, but I can’t think of many things I’d rather do less.”

“Of course, of course. Well, I thought I would ask.”

“No problem.” He got two stairs up before—

“Tony?”

“Yes, Mrs. Jensen?”

“Do you think Dennis is an asshole?”

He barked out a laugh. “Yeah, kind of. He judges me as much as any old white lady at the supermarket who holds her purse closer to her when I walk by. I had my rough patch, but I have responsibilities now, real ones, to my family. I don’t wanna screw that up, but I don’t need to file papers for some do-gooder to do that.” Normally he wouldn’t be so blunt, but he wanted to make sure his feelings on the subject were known.

“Thank you for being so candid,” she said, though she looked thoroughly defeated about something that he guessed was not about failing to secure an office gofer or about Dennis Velasquez being an asshole.

Luckily, he actually made it up the stairs without further delay. He paused outside Clay’s room, ready to knock, but the door swung open. Clay stood there, a splotchy blush over his cheeks, nervousness flowing off him like fog.

“Hey Tony.”

“Clay,” he said with a nod. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, yes, of course,” he blustered, standing back from the door.

The posters were gone from the walls, the desk had been cleaned up. It looked more grown-up this way, which he was sure was the point. He sat down on the couch and adjusted his jeans, ran a hand over his hair, tried to look like he was comfortable at all, which he was not – neither mentally nor physically.

“Your mom asked me if I wanted to help in Dennis Velasquez’s office.”

Clay snorted a laugh and shook his head. “So when do you start?”

“Never, hopefully.”

“I told her as much.”

Well, that explained her baleful look.

Silence stretched between them, but not an empty silence. It was the silence of too much to say, the silence that paralyzed people into inaction. Clay sat at his desk, bouncing his leg and gnawing at his fingernails while Tony remained on the couch staring at every crack and groove in his hands. Tony knew he had to take the lead, by default. He was the one with experience, after all, or so the conventional wisdom held. But the truth was, no one had made him feel like Clay made him feel. He’d never had feelings that simmered slowly for a friend like this, only a pop and crackle of desire coupled with vague enjoyment of a person’s company. This was different, raw, nauseating in its depth. Even so, he knew what it meant to discover something about yourself, especially when that something involved intimacy, and he had discovered this so long ago it was just a part of him now like his brown eyes or his tattoos. So he cleared his throat.

“Uh, well, look…I didn’t just kiss you on New Year’s because I was drunk and you were there. It was real.”

Clay dropped his hand, stared at Tony in shock. His leg stilled its incessant jiggle. “Same,” he managed to mutter, with clear effort.

“Good.”

“So what happens now?”

An excellent question that Tony had no answer to, at least not an answer he could articulate. He wasn’t entirely sure either, only knew that he felt deep within himself that his next move should be to kiss Clay for real and without pretext. If he did that, they would at least know what their bodies wanted, if not their minds.

He got up and strode across the room, faking it until he made it, acting like the experienced gay dude that people expected him to be. He stopped in front of Clay and clamped his legs tight around his, one between his knees and the other squeezing his left leg, and from there, bent down – though not that far, because even sitting, Clay was tall – and kissed him like he had wanted to ever since he listened to Clay’s tape. He kissed him slow and deep, as sweetly as he could, hands hovering just above Clay’s face as if to say _I don’t want to hurt you._ Clay sat completely still and kissed Tony back, hands at Tony’s hips, a small moan in his throat.

When they parted, coming up for air with big gasps, they smiled unsteadily at each other. Tony circled his arms around Clay’s neck, stroked gentle thumb-circles along the top knob of Clay’s spine.

“That felt incredible,” Clay said. He stared up at Tony with wide, dazed eyes and his lips glistening with their mingled saliva, which shouldn’t have been sexy, but something about each of them sharing something so intimate drove Tony into a quiet frenzy.

Tony could only nod, hoping it conveyed the vibrant, pulsing feelings inside him, the golden mist of desire and the peaceful lap of contentment, the feeling like coming home after a long absence and the tingle of newness.

And then, outside the room, the sound of Clay’s parents laughing and traipsing up the stairs. Before he had time to react, Clay’s dad had opened the door and the two of them were standing there, staring in shock. Their laughter stopped, replaced with nervous throat-clearing. Tony jumped back like Clay had turned from a hot guy into a hot stove.

Mr. Jensen recovered first. “Uh, we were going to check out the Christmas lights before they get taken down. If you guys want to come with…”

Mrs. Jensen shook off her shocked face and said, “Clay, you should definitely come with us.”

“No, no, let him…well…Christmas lights are probably pretty lame, right?”

“Um, no, I – I kind of wanted to anyway.”

“Tony can join us if he wants,” Mr. Jensen said.

“Matt—” Mrs. Jensen tried to say, but Mr. Jensen kissed her and pushed her down the hall.

“Let’s warm up the car while these guys decide what to do, okay?”

“But—”

“ _Okay_?”

“Yes, good idea,” she said, more than a little hollowly.

Once the door was closed, they melted into respective puddles of nervous laughter.

“Jesus,” Clay muttered, rubbing his eyes.

“I better get home,” Tony said, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do.

“No, please come with me. They’ll make a stink if I don’t go, and if you don’t go too, it’ll be insufferable. Please, Tony,” he actually begged, holding onto Tony’s hand.

“Are you sure? Won’t it be weird?”

“I promise you, I have been dealing with my parents my whole life. It’ll be worse if you don’t come with us. It’ll be dead silent and awkward and please, just come with me. If you never want to hang out after that, fine, but just this.” Desperation made his voice crack and his eyes go intense with fear.

Tony wanted to go, against all logic and sense. “This is going to be the worst first date ever.”

“You are so not helping,” Clay said, getting up to grab his jacket and search for his shoes. Tony merely snickered in response.

They kissed once more before leaving Clay’s room, a sort of bookmark kiss that saved their place and would help them figure out where to start as they navigated the unknown.

In the car with Clay’s parents, they sat on opposite sides of the backseat with – as his Abuelita would say – enough room for the Holy Spirit between them. Clay sat with his hands in his lap, Tony with his buried deep in his jacket pockets, both of them scrunched up with legs against their respective doors.

Mr. Jensen made valiant attempts at small talk, asking Tony about his classes, his parents’ shop, his family. Tony answered dutifully, politely, the way one might as a young child talking to an adult and not one adult to another. This extra helping of politeness was, perhaps, a way to tell Mr. Jensen that he had not done anything untoward with Clay, that he wasn’t the homosexual usurper warned of in many twentieth century public service videos.

They got to the edge of town where the big houses were, the richest ones, all still decorated in their finery. It was, perhaps, one of Crestmont’s more fucked-up traditions – the big houses went all out with Christmas décor while the rest of the town ogled their material successes – but Tony still liked looking at lights. On top of that, if he had once envied the families inside, dripping with money and privilege, he didn’t anymore. After the past two years, he was grateful for his parents raising him right, his scrapes with the law that taught him not to jeopardize this little life he had, his job that let him use his hands and feel accomplished at the end of a work day. His father had no complicated, vague “hedge fund manager” type job, but when Tony said he was a mechanic and owned a garage, people knew what he was talking about and they always said they’d take their cars to them, because after all, dealerships were a scam and quickie oil-change places didn’t know what they were doing.

He hazarded a glance over at Clay, back to biting his nails and staring out the window, sort of looking past the lights. He reached out and smacked Clay’s arm, knocking him back to reality, and Clay responded with a look of shock, then a look of light-hearted mirth as he smacked Tony back – impressively hard for such a skinny dude. He smiled at Tony with his head down, a grin meant only for him.

Mrs. Jensen chattered on nervously about the lights, describing them as though she were the only one in the car who could see. Her voice became like the chirping of birds, something incessant and unstoppable that needed to be tuned out.

Everyone pretended that Tony and Clay hadn’t been caught kissing, and that Mr. and Mrs. Jensen weren’t the ones that had caught them. This blithe pretense suited Tony fine.

Afterwards, they went back to the Jensens’ house and Mrs. Jensen offered Tony some hot chocolate, looking so tense her face must have been about to crack. He declined politely, citing that he needed to help his own mom with something, which wasn’t strictly true, but he figured she’d have something for him to do if he asked. Clay looked up at him with wide puppy eyes, begging him to stay. But no, they had to face reality – Clay most of all. And if there was one thing Clay had to know about Tony, it was that Tony wasn’t afraid to give him a little push in whatever direction he needed.

So Tony went home, even though his heart ached. They parted with few answers, just the memory of that burning kiss.

***

Clay must have texted him as soon as he awoke, for Tony’s phone was buzzing excitedly as gray winter sun barely broke through his curtain. Tony was awake but lying in bed, his cousin having left back to L.A. and thus leaving Tony alone in his room once again. He reveled in it. His cousin snored bad.

_I am so sorry about all that last night._

_Can we hang out again?_

_Ugh, why am I so needy?_

_Just…text me when you wake up._

Tony rubbed his eyes and figured this was as good a time as any to start his Saturday. He pulled on enough clothes to be decent in front of his parents and shuffled to the bathroom, peed, brushed his teeth, tamed his hair. Looking in the mirror, he wondered if maybe it was time to stop trying to beat his hair into submission with a straightener and all the hairspray and pomade in the world. Maybe it was time to cut it short and let it do its thing a little more. It wasn’t bad on its own, really, and it was such a pain in the ass to style. Major changes would have to wait; first, he needed coffee.

No one was up yet. It was only him, Mariana, and their parents these days, with Julio living with his girlfriend and Ricky living in his bachelor pad/weed den. After growing up with all of them, plus the occasional cousin or uncle, living in a house with only three other people was probably as close as Tony would ever get to living alone. Still, he savored any moment of solitude in the house, and he leaned against the counter for a moment before making some coffee, which had the potential to attract people to the kitchen but was necessary to his motivation.

As the smell of coffee filled the kitchen and he waited for the huge pot to fill, he texted Clay.

_There’s nothing to apologize for. Your parents got a hell of a shock. Did they interrogate you after I left?_

_It wasn’t awful. They just asked if I wanted to talk, and I said there was nothing to talk about yet._

_Nothing, huh? Gee, thanks._

_Can it. You know what I mean. So are you coming over later?_

_How about you come over here, and we’ll go for a drive?_

_Sure, sounds good._

It gave Tony some time to gather his thoughts, because as it was, he wanted to say to Clay, “Let’s do this. I know you’ve only been with girls up to this point, but let’s jump in with both feet.” That wouldn’t do. It would be the equivalent to thinking he’d started a good campfire with cardboard, thrilling at the high flames, only to be disappointed when he burned through them and there was nothing left but spare flutters of ashy paper and no logs to catch fire and burn all night. So, he finished his coffee and had some toast and tried to curb his feelings.

It didn’t work, and the coffee hardly helped. Twenty minutes later, and he was reorganizing the multitude of storage they had in the basement, separating out boxes of holiday decorations from sentimental family doo-dads. He dusted them off and even vacuumed as much of the floor as he could manage without moving too many things. He had worked up a sweat and by the time he ended up in the janky, underused basement bathroom, his hair had curled a little with moisture. He thought it looked kind of cool, even though as a kid he had hated the waviness and thought it made him look weird. Well, at least that was one problem closer to solved.

“Mijo, what are you doing down there?” his mother called from the top of the stairs.

“Reorganizing things!”

“Por que?” she asked, drifting down in her nightshirt and robe, astonished.

“Needed doing.”

“Is this about that white boy?”

“Yep.” He didn’t look at her.

She clucked her tongue. “He better be good to you.”

“I hope so too.”

She lingered on the stairs, scratching at a peeling fleck of paint and staring at it, rather than looking at him. “Do you…need to talk about it or anything?”

“There’s not much to talk about just yet, I guess,” he said.

“You like him?”

Tony nodded, wiped his hands on his shirt.

“More than what’s-his-name? The buff one?”

“Caleb?”

“Si, him.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “A lot more.”

“Aye, Mijo,” she sighed. “It’s tough to be young sometimes, isn’t it? I’ll have Abuelita say a Rosary for you.”

“You think she’s cool with saying a Rosary for me to get my dream guy?”

“Dream guy, huh?” She had that smirky Mom-smile, that smug satisfaction she got when her children divulged something they had perhaps not meant to. “Anyway, she wants you to be happy, just like me and your Papi do. And she’s always ready for any excuse to say a Rosary.”

Tony nodded, silently, standing there in sweatpants and a ratty old t-shirt, covered in dust. The basement closed in around him with its musty smell and the dust and boxes, the old TV in the corner, the abandoned toys from his childhood. An unnamable distress welled in him, maybe partially about Clay but mostly about nebulous things, the churning emotional growing pains of being almost nineteen.

His mother sensed this and came down the stairs, pulled him into a hug, murmured, “Mijo, mijo, don’t be sad.”

“I’m not sad,” he mumbled into her shoulder.

“Worried, whatever,” she said, pulling back and looking him over, her hands on his shoulders, looking him over as if checking for injuries. “This boy, Clay, why does he have you in such turmoil?”

Tony shrugged. “I just like him a lot and – and I think he likes me. But we haven’t had a chance to really talk about it. We’re friends, you know? I don’t want to screw this up. I don’t want to…lose him,” he admitted.

“Well, if he says no to you, he’s stupid and he’ll be the one missing out.”

Tony smiled at that. He had clearly underestimated his mother, a mistake he wouldn’t make again.

“You need breakfast.”

“I had some toast,” he said.

“Toast!” She grabbed his arm and hustled him upstairs. “Toast isn’t a meal. You need some chorizo and eggs. And a shower.”

He showered while she cooked him breakfast, trying to wash away his doubts in the warm spray. Once finished, he stood in front of the mirror and made a decision not to style his hair, to let it dry and curl as it would. Maybe he’d hate it, but he’d never know if he didn’t try. His mom didn’t say anything when he went back to the kitchen, merely looked extra long at his hair as though she couldn’t quite process what she was seeing.

She ate with him and told him about all the family gossip. His cousin Isabella was dating an asshole; his other cousin Mario was joining the Marines; his mom’s cousin Ignacio was finally moving away from their small town into Mexico City.

Clay finally texted that he was on his way, which Tony told his mom.

“Invite him in so he can eat,” she said, and Tony would have denied this request except for the canny, narrow-eyed look she gave him that told him it wasn’t a request at all, but a command.

_My mom says to come in for breakfast and I don’t think it’s negotiable._

The look Clay gave him upon entering the house said he knew precisely why he was being invited in and that it was really an interrogation with food, rather than breakfast.

“Clay, I remember you,” Tony’s mom said, pulling him in for an awkward hug. Clay towered head and shoulders over her.

“Mrs. Padilla—”

“Elena,” she corrected him.

“Elena,” he repeated. “Good to see you again.”

“Sit, sit, have some breakfast.” She piled a plate for him and proceeded with her questions about school, life, his interests, whether or not he went to church, how long his parents had been married. Clay answered politely and dutifully, and Tony saw on his face that they were both attempting to divine the algorithm in Tony’s mom’s head that would sort all these data into some picture of Clay and whether he was worthy of her son’s affections. Tony had seen this routine before, but he never figured out its mysteries. Whatever it was, Clay was passing, he could tell. If his mom leaned forward on the counter to talk to someone, it meant she liked them. If she offered seconds – as she did with Clay – it meant she wanted them to stick around and talk more.

“I swear, I couldn’t eat another—” Clay tried to say. Tony kicked him under the table, slightly harder than he meant to. “But I will make an effort because that was delicious, thank you Elena.”

So he was smarter than anyone Tony had dated before, if they were even dating or about to date or whatever. Regardless, his mom smiled triumphantly and dished up more food for him.

“So skinny,” she admonished. “Why you so skinny?”

“I, um, I don’t know. Hollow leg?”

She laughed at that, which was a good sign.

She finally let them go after he finished a second plate of food and looked truly uncomfortable.

“I’m driving,” Clay said. “If I ride shotgun now, I’ll puke.”

They got in his tiny Prius, which ran so silently that it honestly freaked Tony out a little. How would you know if it stopped? If something was wrong? He didn’t ask these questions, because they were stupid questions, but merely sat back and let Clay take them wherever he thought they should go.

“You can put on some music,” he offered, holding up the aux cord. Tony took it and plugged in his phone, scrolled through his music, and settled on Echo and the Bunnymen. Something about its easy melancholy suited the gray and yellow light, the naked, leafless trees swaying in the winter breeze.

Clay drove them well out of town, eastward to the high, yellow grasses, the abandoned gas stations and peeling motor lodges. Whenever Tony saw these kinds of places, his heart ached with a sense of unearned nostalgia. Was that where he belonged? In a time past? Or was he a man of his age? He could never seem to figure it out, vacillating as he did from decade to decade in dress, music, movies, cars, everything.

They stopped at a deserted state park that didn’t look officially open and parked in the farthest spot from the road. They walked to a picnic area, in view of the car lest they get towed from the middle of nowhere, and sat at a picnic table huddled in their jackets.

Tony couldn’t help noticing that Clay sat next to him rather than across from him, so he reached his hand out and linked their arms together. Clay tensed for a moment and Tony feared he had over-stepped, but then his friend relaxed against him.

“Why does it have to mean anything, anyway?” Clay asked. “Why can’t we just…let it flow?”

Tony ran his fingers along the fraying cuff of Clay’s hoodie bunching out from his jacket, let his fingers dance from fabric to skin.

“Mean anything?”

“No, no, not like that,” Clay said, squeezing Tony’s arm in reassurance. “It means something to me, don’t get me wrong. It means – fuck – maybe it means everything. But like, now it’s like I have to declare a side or something. I have to be all, _hi, I’m Clay and I’m_ …what? Bisexual now? Gay?”

Tony shrugged. “You don’t have to declare a side. I don’t think so, anyway.”

“Easy for you to say – you know what you are.”

“Sure, about this. But there’s plenty of stuff I don’t know.”

“Really?”

“Si, claro. Yes, of course.”

Clay nodded, perhaps not fully appeased with this answer, but satisfied enough knowing that at least Tony wasn’t made entirely of swagger and confidence.

“I just want…I just want a weekend with you, away from everyone, somewhere where no one knows us. No families, no run-ins with former high school friends, just me and you and – and – some Dutch courage and a bed,” Clay said, cheeks going from cold pink to hot rosy red.

“Dutch courage and a bed, huh?”

“Oh my god, please forget I said that and never bring it up again.”

“I can’t make any promises.”

Clay groaned.

“Sorry, man, best I can do. So what if we did just that? Just went somewhere? What’s stopping us?”

“Nothing, I guess,” Clay said, after considering it for a moment. “But realistically, I know I’m not ready for that.”

Tony hid his disappointment, even though he knew it was the more practical decision. Not jumping in, he reminded himself.

“Look, Clay, I can’t pretend like I’m not totally freaking out about this, too. At the end of the day, you’re my friend, and I don’t want to fuck that up. But I – I—” Oh man, here it was, that moment of truth, and the rarest kind, the kind that presented itself so perfectly. He took a deep breath and blundered forward. “I like you as more than a friend. And I want to just – well, no need to get ahead of myself here – but suffice it to say, I’m having to restrain myself a lot right now.”

“Yeah? Tell me more,” Clay said with a leer.

“Stop yourself.”

“Okay, seriously though, it’s like…these past few weeks, hanging out with you again, you’re – you’re all I can see, man.”

Tony teared up and buried his face in Clay’s shoulder. They sat like that for a few minutes before the wind picked up. Teeth chattering, they hurried back to Clay’s car and sat inside with the heat at full blast while they warmed up.

“I like your hair, by the way,” Clay said at length.

Tony carded his fingers through it. “Yeah?”

“Can, um, can I touch it?”

Tony laughed. “Yeah, man, go ahead.”

Clay reached out, hand shaking either from nerves or cold but probably both, and first ran tentative fingertips across the top of his hair. Then Clay’s fingers descended into Tony’s hair, sunk into it, fingernails lightly gazing his scalp. At this, he let out an involuntary whimper of pleasure as it sent crackles through his whole nervous system.

“Liked that, huh?”

“Don’t stop,” Tony whispered.

“Hmm,” Clay said, continuing to stroke Tony’s hair and scratch his scalp.

“God, that feels good,” Tony said, taking Clay’s hand and kissing his palm.

“ _That_ feels good,” Clay said, his voice shaking, so of course Tony did it again.

How many times had he thought about this? Planned this out in his mind? He lost count a while back. But he could never have imagined the rush of blood in his ears as Clay touched him, the shaking breaths it made him inhale.

Clay leaned back in his seat, eyes closed, and sighed. “What the fuck do I tell my parents?”

“You don’t have to tell them anything until you’re ready.”

“What did you tell _your_ parents?”

Tony leaned back in his seat, too, because he didn’t want to risk Clay opening his eyes and seeing the look Tony knew he always got when he thought about his coming-out moment. “It wasn’t great, let’s just leave it at that.”

“I’m sorry,” Clay said.

Tony squeezed his hand. “Thanks. But, you know, they’re old-school. It won’t be like that with your parents.”

“How did you know you were gay?”

“I don’t know…it was this collection of things, I guess. Never had crushes on girls, but I always wanted to be around these two guys I was friends with in elementary school. That kind of thing. It added up for me in middle school, but I didn’t really do anything about it until freshman year of high school. And no one messed with me, because they knew I could kick their asses. And if I couldn’t, my brothers could. And if that failed? Well, we all had wrenches and shit in our cars. It wasn’t like I was being brave or anything. I just…did it because I thought I had the upper hand,” he said.

He had never told anyone this. No one else had really asked, and why would they? For all intents and purposes, Tony was just the badass gay guy and everyone left it at that. No need to tell anyone that his rage, his “badass” front was all in service of protecting the deep truth that he clenched his whole body every time he left the house. When that old man had called him and Ryan fags, and he had beat the guy within an inch of his life, well that was just the rage and fear coming out of Tony as much as the man’s words were his own rage and fear. He told all of this to Clay just then, sitting there in his car, in a rush, words tumbling out between them. When he was done, Clay eyed him with a new scrutiny as he squared this new information with whatever image he had been carrying around of Tony.

“I hope you know this makes me like you more.”

“Why? Because I’m all wounded and shit?”

“No, because you’re human like the rest of us.”

That shut Tony up, but Clay continued. “When you first started following me around like a creeper, I thought you were this mysterious…avenging angel. But you were the same scared, hurt kid as the rest of us. I like you better this way, not because of pity, but because of relatability.”

Tony nodded and said thanks, even though he didn’t feel all that grateful. Mostly he felt like he had overshared, but Clay was too sincere to be humoring him, so he guessed it wasn’t that bad.

 _I could fall in love with you_ , he thought.

***

The next days passed in a thrilling fugue. If Tony and Clay weren’t texting, they were hanging out. If they weren’t doing either of those things, they were video chatting, each laying on his side with phones propped up, and it was almost like lying in bed together, which they had yet to do. Crestmont was new and beautiful in ways it had never been, with the weak winter sun already seemingly tinged with the buttery glow of memory and the abysmal downtown suddenly a charming little place to have coffee and talk or see a movie and kiss in the darkness, which they definitely did do.

Tony thought he knew Clay before, but the more time he spent with him, the more he realized there were depths to the various nervous rambles and obsessions Clay let fly. And, of course, the more time he spent around Clay’s parents, the more all that made sense.

The reality, though, hung over their heads: In a few days, Clay would return to Reno. School would start up again and they wouldn’t see each other for months. They would be too busy to talk every day. The thought tugged at Tony’s insides, a pre-emptive loneliness and near panic at the thought of not being able to see and touch Clay every day. But time would march on regardless, and they both knew it had to happen. They didn’t speak of it, merely caught each other’s eyes on occasion and exchanged looks that said what their voices couldn’t: _I will miss you. I don’t want this to end. Things will change when we’re not together, because that’s just how things happen_.

There was no talk of Clay coming back to Crestmont or of Tony going to Reno. They were on their own paths, and each knew it. Tony’s family and their shop were his top priorities and school was Clay’s. They wouldn’t compromise each other like that. But they knew time was running out of their hands and going wherever time went when it finished with them.

“What are we going to do?” Clay asked.

They were sprawled on the couch in Clay’s room, Clay with his head in Tony’s lap and Tony with sock-covered feet propped on the table.

The truth of it was that two eighteen-year-old college dudes doing the long-distance thing didn’t carry favorable odds, even if the dudes in question were these two. Shit happened, and Tony knew it, and he figured Clay did too.

“I don’t know, man.”

“I’m going to miss you so fucking bad. I did anyway, even before all this, and now it’s just going to be worse,” Clay said.

“Same.”

“What are we even doing?”

Tony nudged him to get him to sit up and Clay complied easily, crossing his long legs and facing Tony. He was so beautiful like this, in worn jeans and a t-shirt with holes at the neck, a hoodie, no shoes. This version of Clay was the version only Tony and maybe Skye ever saw. Even Hannah – beloved as she was in such an abstracted sense – had probably never seen Clay act natural. Tony’s fingers twitched.

“We’re enjoying each other’s company. That’s all we can do,” Tony said, taking Clay’s hand and kissing the palm, something he had learned Clay enjoyed immensely.

“But I have to go back to school.” Stating the obvious and finally saying out loud made it that much worse, and that much more real.

“I know. You’ll come back, though. Spring break, summer, long weekends. We just have to hold on between breaks, that’s all.”

“That’s all, huh? Is it going to be that easy for you, do you think?”

“Hell no,” Tony said.

“Thought so.” Clay playfully shoved Tony’s shoulder and Tony shoved him back and of course, this led to a joking wrestling match on the floor that crackled with sexual tension. Neither of them dared to cash in on it, though, because they could hear Clay’s parents downstairs and that was a boner-killer.

When they surfaced, sweaty and breathing hard, no winner declared but the match sealed with a kiss, they sat on the floor facing each other. Tony loved that he could get close enough now to see Clay’s eyelashes, freckles, and every delicate curve of his mouth. He could see the places where Clay would one day develop wrinkles, where his skin would crease with each smile, laugh, and frown.

“You’re so...”

“Pretty?” Clay asked, batting his eyelashes ostentatiously.

“Honestly? Yes,” Tony said, which seemingly took Clay very much off-guard. He sobered up and stared at Tony as though unsure if it was really Tony sitting there. So he went on. “You really are. It’s the eyes and nose, I think. You look wide-eyed and innocent, even after all the shit that has happened to you.”

“Well, um, thanks,” Clay said, blushing deep pink. “You’re not so bad yourself.” He paused, seemed to gather his thoughts. “What I meant to say was that you’re also beautiful. But not in a girly way. In this totally masculine way without being an asshole, like the jocks.”

Now it was Tony’s turn to blush, and he stammered out a similarly-awkward thanks.

“See, it’s weird getting compliments,” Clay said.

“Yeah, it is,” Tony agreed. “Look, when you go back to school, if you meet someone, go for it, okay? I don’t want you to hold back because of me. Just text me about it – no details, but enough so you don’t feel like it’s a secret. I want that for you, because I know you aren’t sure about things.”

Clay took his hand. “Same goes for you.”

Tony nodded, but didn’t say what he was thinking: He wouldn’t have any other prospects, because Clay was the only person he wanted. But maybe that was too serious or too scary, too _something_ , he was sure, so he kept it to himself while fervently hoping Clay thought the same.

Cautious, clumping steps made their way up the stairs, and the two of them exchanged a look. Ever since they had been unceremoniously caught kissing, Clay’s parents made outsized shows of walking up the stairs. They faced the door innocently as Lainie knocked and Clay gave her the okay to come in.

“Staying for dinner?” she asked Tony.

“Sure, I’d like that,” he said, turning on his best mom-charming smile. “Need help?”

“Yes – if you could set the table,” she said, overly polite.

“Absolutely.”

She nodded and left back down the stairs with less clambering.

“Uh, before I go back to Reno, I – I mean, I don’t have to do it right now, but I would like to – tell my parents what’s going on,” Clay said, the words tumbling out like bouncy balls. He stared down at the carpet, worried his long fingers into it.

The prospect had Tony running cold, but he went along with it because he knew he had to, and after all, they had to tell the Jensens at some point. It would never be the right time.

“Tonight?” Tony asked.

“Maybe. Yeah.”

He nodded.

Downstairs, they set the table for dinner and tried to ignore their looming worries. Dinner was fine – quiet, urbane, healthy. Clay’s parents talked about work and what was going on in their various departments, which all sounded extremely boring but Tony smiled along and asked questions and generally tried to convince them he wasn’t some idiot who didn’t know how to converse, who played games obsessively on his phone, or whatever people did when they weren’t listening to people around them.

It was all a contrast from every dinner Tony experienced in his own family, which had people talking over one another, reaching for dishes, and smothering everything in hot sauce and/or cheese. His dad usually held court on whatever he had heard on talk radio at the shop – often flat-out wrong, or at the very least simmered down to a common denominator that rendered the pontifications nearly useless in any real sense. His mom counterbalanced this with family gossip and questions to the kids about their schooling, their relationships, and whatever else.

It explained a lot about Clay that he came from this reserved family who spoke softly and said things like “Please pass the green beans,” rather than just reaching for them. Clay reflected these quiet dinners, this lack of social interaction. Growing up with only two personalities in the house, of course he didn’t know who he was or what he wanted. He had no one to look at to decide he wanted to do things this or that way, as Tony did. For example, he wanted to be hard-working like his dad, caring like his mom, a good listener like Mariana, and nothing at all like Ricky or Julio, who spent their lives in constant pursuit of girlfriends, weed, and parties.

After dinner, they helped clean up, loading the dishwasher and wiping down counters. A part of Tony – a significant one, if he was being honest – wanted to ingratiate himself to Clay’s parents. He wanted to show them he could be a part of the family, he could fit in, he could also ask to pass the green beans.

And then, the kitchen was clean, Mr. and Mrs. Jensen were curled together in front of the TV with cups of ice cream, and Clay cast Tony a look that let him know it was time. He headed to the living room, following Clay’s lead, and stood behind him as he cleared his throat. Mr. Jensen, sensing something was coming, muted the TV and set down his ice cream.

“So, uh, I’m headed back to Reno in a couple days,” he started, “and I’m sure you noticed, well, that Tony has been hanging out here a lot. And, um, I just wanted to know that we’re, like, together.”

His parents, who obviously already knew this, nodded and thanked him for letting them know.

“You’re welcome here any time, Tony,” Mrs. Jensen assured him.

“Thanks.”

“We can talk more later, champ,” Mr. Jensen said.

“There isn’t much to say,” Clay told them. “I don’t know – I don’t know what it means for me. Just that I like Tony.” He took Tony’s hand to prove his point, which felt extremely weird, but Tony wouldn’t let go for anything short of a natural disaster.

“Well, still,” Mr. Jensen said.

Tony figured the parents would need to talk amongst themselves, as parents often did, so he tugged Clay’s hand and they excused themselves back up to Clay’s room.

“They totally think we’re gonna do it up here,” Tony joked as Clay shut the door.

“Oh god,” he groaned, flopping down on his bed.

Tony flopped down next to him. Finally, lying in bed with Clay. Even if they didn’t do anything, it was nice to just lay there and feel another person’s presence and warmth against him.

“We don’t have to, you know,” Tony said. “Do it. Not until you’re ready.”

“Would you stop being so perfect?”

“That’s not perfection. That’s one of the basics. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know, but still…it’s just a lot, and you’re being so good. I feel like I’m not being good enough for you, because I don’t know…what I am, or what I want, or whatever.”

“Do you want to be with me right now?” Tony asked.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Then the rest of it doesn’t matter,” he said, gathering Clay to him in the darkness, pulling him close and kissing him.

***

Tony woke early on the day Clay was set to leave back to Reno. It was Sunday, and he told his parents the night before that he’d be spending most of the day with Clay. His dad didn’t ask why or what they would be doing, merely pursed his lips and nodded. His mom said she would say a prayer for him at church – her way of telling him that she was moderately worried about him. Awaking in the pre-dawn gloom, stumbling to make coffee and have some breakfast, his sadness laid heavy in his belly, this physical, metallic weight he’d been carrying around for days.

His mom came into the kitchen quietly, ran her hand over his hair as he stood by the coffee maker. “I like your hair like this. It’s like it was when you were a kid. You remember?”

“I remember thinking it made me look like a fuzzy puppy.”

“No, mijo,” she said, “you looked cute.”

He didn’t comment, just poured them both big cups of coffee and splashed in some cream.

“I know you’re sad that Clay’s leaving,” she said. 

“Yeah.”

“But you’ll see him soon.”

“I know.”

“But it’s gonna be tough until then, huh?” She pulled him in for a reluctant hug. “It’s okay to be sad about it. You like him a lot?”

“A lot, a lot,” Tony said.

“That’s good. You’re young. You should like people a lot.”

He nodded and put one arm around her pudgy waist, held his coffee with his other hand, and stood in the kitchen, letting his mom comfort him. The house was silent and dark beyond the warm wash of light in the kitchen. It matched the way he felt inside, familiar things occluded by darkness.

His mom made him some pancakes – quietly, so as not to wake his dad or his sister – and they ate together, with his mom offering most of the conversation. Afterward, she shooed him off and he texted Clay to see if he was awake.

 _No, but come over. My parents are conveniently gone until later_.

Tony had never gotten dressed so fast in his life. He was out the door in minutes, on his way to Clay’s in the early morning light, a strange time for a date, but they were hardly going to nitpick about that.

Clay answered the door still in his pajamas and Tony thought that a worn t-shirt and a pair of old-man style flannel pants had no right being as sexy as that. He pulled Tony in and kissed him feverishly.

“Hi,” he said breathlessly when they parted.

Tony laughed, arms circling Clay’s waist. “Good morning, sunshine.”

“My parents weirdly decided to go to a plant show in Vallejo,” Clay said. “They won’t be back until the afternoon, before I leave.”

“They know when to come through for you, gotta give them that.”

“Yeah,” Clay said, looking down, sheepish. Tony knew he thought his parents were insufferable, and Tony couldn’t entirely disagree with him, but still – he was an upper-middle class white guy with parents who had like five college degrees between the two of them. He was also smart enough to figure out his blessings on his own, so Tony didn’t think it his place to enlighten him.

Clay took him by the hand and led him up the stairs to his room. Tony undid his boots and hesitated with his hands at the waistband of his jeans.

“It’s okay if you take them off,” Clay whispered, eyes raking over Tony.

Tony took his jeans off slowly, locking eyes with Clay, even though it made him feel like Clay was seeing into him, into all the secret places he never let anyone, all the insecurities and simmering rages he kept inside himself.

Clay lay down and scooted up to the wall, holding the covers up for Tony, who slid in and pasted himself against Clay. They lay like that, on their sides, Clay’s arm draped over Tony and Tony holding onto his hand for dear life. Never, in all his relationships, had Tony felt so thoroughly at peace with a person. The bed smelled like Clay and all his shampoo, detergent, soap, and cologne, a familiar amalgamation of scents that Tony had never noticed before but realized now made him think instantly of Clay. Underpinning all of the soapy smells was that earthy smell of unwashed hair and sweat, even more tantalizing and Clay-like.

“I’m excited for the new semester, but I don’t want to leave,” Clay said.

“I don’t want you to leave,” Tony said, “but imagine how good it will be when we do see each other again.”  

“So, what did happen when you came out to your parents?”

Tony hated thinking about that awful conversation, and he knew that if he told Clay he never wanted to talk about it, Clay would drop it. But he wanted Clay to know, wanted Clay to see the parts of him and his family that weren’t all sunshine and tamales. He shifted so that he was facing Clay, looking deep into his worried eyes.

“My dad caught me in my car with Brad. We were just kissing, but oh man, that was enough for him.”

“Brad? Like, junior year Brad?”

Tony nodded. “Surprised?”

“Yeah. I figured you were as nonchalant about it with your dad as you were with anyone else.”

“Nope. So he caught me and Brad in the car and pulled Brad out physically while yelling at me so loud, neighbors started looking out the windows – ‘You ain’t no man, that’s nasty, blah blah.’ Same dumb shit.”

“I’m so sorry,” Clay said.

“He came around eventually, but it was rough for a while. Didn’t talk to me, all that. He doesn’t talk much anyway, not about that kind of stuff.”

“So there was all that bullshit with the tapes and – and me acting like a – like an angry child – and you had all this shit going on? Fuck, Tony, I feel like such an asshole,” Clay said.

“It’s okay. Honestly, it was kind of a relief. Maybe that was part of why I threw myself into it so hard. It took my mind off what was waiting for me at home, which was my dad glaring at me and leaving the room whenever I walked in and my mom crying and my brothers suddenly treating me like…like I was different from them, which I guess I am, but like…alien. Like I wasn’t their brother, but just some kid who lived in their house,” Tony said. Tears welled up, and he would have been horrified around anyone else, but he just let Clay wipe them away with the pad of his thumb.

“And here you just watched my parents say okay and go back to watching TV,” Clay groaned.

Tony snuffled out a laugh. “It’s not the first time. Ryan’s mom was always cool with him. Brad’s parents thought he walked on water no matter what. Most people are cool with it. My parents are just…old school. Hell, old _country_.”

“Old school is what people say when they want to be assholes to the people around them,” Clay said.

“Maybe,” Tony conceded, “but it doesn’t change the fact that they’re from literally this entirely different time and place than us.”

Clay nodded.

“But we’re okay now. Okay-ish. That’s the best I can ask for. They didn’t kick me out. My dad did slap me hard, though. It was the only time he ever hit me,” Tony said.

Clay just lay there in silence, hand resting on the side of Tony’s face, a comforting and warm weight. He worked his fingers through Tony’s hair, down the side of his face, and onto his chest. This lulled Tony into a dazed half-sleep, smiling stupidly in the gray morning light.

They roused themselves a while later, got dressed, made some coffee and drank it lazily in the kitchen. Tony didn’t ask, but he knew that for himself, he was imagining them doing this regularly, as a matter of course, each day starting like this, with soft conversation and caffeine, with these small moments that meant nothing and everything.

They decided on a drive, it being too cold outside for a hike or anything else. Clay drove them out to another park, outside of town but with a scenic pull-off that let them see the rocky coastal hills around their little corner of nowhere. Clay, in a mood of bold playfulness that Tony could never remember from him, clambered out of the driver’s seat and into Tony’s lap, long legs comically bent up as he sat with his back against the dash. Tony scooted his seat back as best he could, but Clay still looked spidery and somewhat uncomfortable.

“My car has a bench seat up front,” Tony bragged.

“Mine has better mileage.”

“True, but most do,” he agreed.

Clay reached up and ruffled Tony’s hair, pushing it off to one side, letting it fall in his face. He dug his fingers in again, as he had done previously, activating the delicious cascade of feeling that rippled through Tony’s entire body.

“Fuck, that is so sexy,” Clay said.

“You think so?”

“Oh yeah. Soft, thick. Sensual.”

“Better than the pomp?”

“I don’t know about that. Different, for sure. This is more touchable.”

“Well, I definitely like it when you touch me.”

“Good, because I don’t want to stop.”

“Fuck, man, sometimes you say these things – and like, you don’t mean them to be sexy, I don’t think. But, like, you say them and it’s just…oof,” Tony said, splaying his hand over his heart, trying to indicate with the gesture that it did something to him words couldn’t express, which they couldn’t. How could he articulate the sensation he got when Clay’s voice dropped low and quiet like that, when he homed in on Tony with a laser-like gaze?

“You have your moments, too, don’t worry,” Clay said, taking his hand and kissing his fingertips.

Tony could sit like this – awkward and uncomfortable as it was – until the end of time. Clay’s bony butt digging into his thighs, legs akimbo and invading Tony’s space, and the sharp locker room tang of sweaty bodies felt like home to him. He circled his arms around Clay’s knees and rested his chin on them. He memorized Clay’s face even more thoroughly than he already had, drank it in for rationing out later. Of course, they would video chat, but this was different. Nothing would compare to this, to smelling and tasting and touching, the feel of soft hair and hard knees and tantalizingly textured fingers. There were the bumps and grooves of Clay’s knuckles, the soft dusting of hair, the silky skin of his wrist. (When Tony touched the latter of these, Clay sucked in a shuddering breath of pleasure. Tony would file this information in his mind, in a rapidly-expanding file of things that made Clay swoon.)

And of course, he wanted to get naked with Clay. The possibility was all he could think about. (Late at night, alone in his room, or during his morning showers.) But more than that, he wanted to get to know Clay’s whole body, everything that made him shudder and sigh. He suspected that this would make it better whenever it did happen. They’d get there – no need to rush. He’d rather wait in agony than cause Clay any grief by pressuring him.

They drove back into town a while later, stopping for lunch at the diner. A group of Bryce’s old cronies sat at a booth not too far away, mean mugging Clay and Tony as they walked by, and Tony was awash with pleasure when he realized just how fucking irrelevant those guys were now and would be until the end of their shitty little lives. Him and Clay were just getting started, and those douchebags had their best years behind them.

They ate slowly and talked incessantly and generally acted like they wouldn’t have to say goodbye in a couple hours. Clay ate a messy burger and fries with what Tony would call too much ketchup, but something about watching such a skinny dude put away a copious amount of greasy food excited Tony in nearly sexual proportions.

Reality did finally catch up to them, though, and silence blanketed the car as they drove back to Clay’s house. Tony lingered outside, holding onto his open car door, reticent to get in and actually drive away. Clay didn’t push him, obviously.

“So, President’s Day?” Clay asked.

“Yeah, that will probably work. I’ll see what my dad needs over at the shop.”

“Okay. Or, I can always come back here.”

“Yeah, but if I go to Reno, it’s a good excuse to rent a hotel room,” Tony said, smiling.

“I…think that thought has caused my brain to short-circuit.”

Tony laughed, but it cut short. A whole month without Clay. What the hell was he going to do? It must have showed on his face, because Clay gathered him close and hugged him tighter and more thoroughly than Tony had been hugged in a long while.

“I know it isn’t the same, but we’ll talk a lot. Text. Snapchat. Whatever you want, I’ll do it.”

“I know. And no, it’s not the same at all.”

“But we’ll see each other soon, and far from my parents.”

“Okay, that part will be extra nice.”

They kissed one more time, slow and deep and for as long as they could stand it. When Tony pulled away, he glanced at the house next door, where an old lady was taking out her recycling and staring at them like she couldn’t believe what she just saw.

“You want help with that, ma’am?” Tony called. She dumped her recycling in the big blue bin and gave him a wide-eyed stare in response before shuffling back into the house as quickly as she could.

“Oh man, Mrs. Snyder. She’ll be talking about this for weeks,” Clay said, laughing and burying his face in Tony’s shoulder.

“Glad we gave her something good to talk about.”

It settled on them both that this was it, time to go, time to say good-bye. Clay needed to pack and get ready for his parents’ return; Tony simply needed to face the music. One last kiss and promises to call and text and all else, and Tony was in his car, driving off. It happened for him in a near brown-out state, his mind seeming to run on auto-pilot as well as commit Clay’s form as Tony sped off into the distance. One last glance before turning onto the main road, and Tony committed it to memory: Clay, on the curb, thinner and more wan than usual in a hoodie and jacket, staring at Tony’s car, which must have cut an aching flash in the gray winter afternoon.

When he got home, Tony shucked his jeans and his t-shirt and crawled into bed in his underwear, curled into the blanket. The house was silent – he supposed they were at church, or maybe just giving Tony space. He didn’t put on any music or anything, just laid there in the emptiness and tried to see if he could smell Clay around him. He didn’t cry, but only because he was past that point and into the yawning gray of having to get back to his regular life for the next month.

He must have fallen asleep, because a knock on his door had him jolting awake with drool smeared all over his face.

“Come in.”

To his surprise, his dad entered with two shot glasses, a bottle of tequila, and two lime wedges. He sat down at Tony’s desk without asking (he never did – as he was fond of reminding his children, this was his house).

“Your mama said Clay’s going back to Reno today,” he said.

Tony nodded.

“Sad, huh?”

“Yeah.”

His dad poured two shots of tequila, handed him one along with a lime. “You need salt?”

Tony shook his head, bit the lime, and downed the tequila in a series of well-practiced motions. He braced himself for the bitter burn, but it didn’t come. He looked at the bottle.

“That’s the bottle Mama gave you last anniversary.”

His dad nodded, poured another shot. “Yes it is, and it’s good stuff. She had Ignacio send it. You can’t get it up here.”

“Don’t waste your good tequila on me.”

“Mijo, good tequila was made for heartbreak. You drink the bad stuff to forget, but you drink this to remember,” he said.

“Remember what?” He downed the next shot, and his dad eyed him – not unkindly, but critically in a way that made Tony sit still. He seemed to have a moment realizing that his son was a man now and not the gap-toothed little boy rolling around in the dust with his cousins or organizing ratchet bits at the shop.

“Remember that you’ll see him again. Remember that – that there’s other stuff out there. Not like, another person, but just the world, you know? Cars to fix, sunsets, your mama’s cooking, whatever.” He took his own second shot and looked out the window. He was right, too – Clay wasn’t his whole world, and probably didn’t want to be. Tony just nodded, and his dad went on. “I don’t get the – the gay thing. But there’s a lotta things in this world I don’t get, but I gotta deal with them. I mean, this isn’t just something I have to deal with. I mean, it’s something I don’t understand, but it matters to you, so it gotta matter to me.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Tony said, voice cracking.

“Listen, mijo, you need some mariachi.”

“What, drowning my sorrows in tequila isn’t Mexican enough for you?”

“Cállete. It’ll make you feel better. Come on, I have my old record player and my records.”

He let his dad drag him out of bed and into the living room. He put on some wailing, cacophonous mariachi that only a guy like him could love, and he was so goddamn excited about it, Tony felt like he had no choice but to be excited too. The tequila he kept pouring didn’t hurt, either. When Tony’s mom called them into the kitchen for dinner, his dad swept her into his arms and twirled her around, kissing her with far more passion than Tony wanted to see.

“Aye, idiota,” she said, laughing. “Come eat something, soak up all that tequila.”

Tony let them have a moment and went to the kitchen. Mariana was setting the table and dipping cucumber slices into ranch.

“You okay?” she asked.

“No, I just saw Mom and Dad kiss.”

She flicked his forehead with her fingers. “Nasty, and also not what I meant.”

“I know,” he said, taking some napkins and silverware from her. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“Good. He’s just back at school, right? He didn’t dump you or anything?”

“No, no, no. Just back at school.” Driving through the cold and the dark at that very moment, likely, and Tony knew that he would feel like that suited his mood. He was probably listening to sad music.

“Good. I’d hate to have to kick someone’s ass this close to Christmas. But you know I keep a sock full of soap just for boys who hurt you.”

“Where’d you learn that one?”

“Some TV show set in prison. Good idea, though, huh?”

“I’ve always preferred to use my fists, but whatever floats your boat, hermanita.”

Their parents came in, and then his mom was dishing up more food than four people needed, even if two of those four were slightly drunk men. Okay, his dad was slightly drunk and Tony was kind of plastered, but he would die – _die_ – before admitting that.

He ate with his family – his loud family, reaching over each other, talking in rapid-fire English and Spanish, poking fun at each other. His dad was right: Clay wasn’t his whole world. His world was the world, and Clay was out there in it. When they saw each other, there would be stories about work and school and family. Tony wanted to know about Clay’s roommate, who sounded cool, and he wanted to keep hanging out with the GSA kids from the community college, who were verifiably uncool but extremely entertaining, and he wanted to see everything that happened in Crestmont so they could lounge around in some cheap Reno hotel room together and laugh about it all. Together.


End file.
